New York Echoes 2

by Warren Adler

  “So when can we expect the loan to go through?” Josh asked. “Surely you have all the guarantees.” She noted that a film of perspiration had sprouted on his lip. “I’m up against certain deadlines that must be met.”

  “Yes, Josh,” Glass said. “I’m well aware of that.”

  Glass could not pull his eyes away from Maureen’s crossed legs.

  “But it still looks good?” Josh asked, unable to hide an air of desperation.

  “We’re just assessing the risks,” Glass said. “You know this business, Josh. It’s all about risk and reward.” He turned to Maureen and winked. “Don’t you agree, Maureen?”

  “Risk and reward,” she said coolly. “That about covers everything.”

  “I’m sure you’ve taken risks in your life,” Glass said, addressing Maureen.

  “It’s the rewards that count,” she said. Glass nodded as if she had said something profound. She met his glance, assessing him, remembering the image of him she had conjured earlier. At these close quarters she felt somewhat neutral, although his scent was still vile. Turning to Josh, she could see that he was suffering.

  “The man’s a sadist,” Josh said when they had left the office. “He’s playing games with us.”

  “Us?” Maureen said.

  “It’s pretty obvious,” Josh muttered.

  “Is it?”

  Of course it was. She was, she knew, coveted. The signs were clear. She understood the role and how it should be played. Glass wanted to possess her like a prized show horse. Despite the fact that she was past her prime, she still had the right stuff. Certain men would give anything to be admired by her. It validated their manhood. To possess her and exhibit her as a private ornament was a victory of sorts and her contrived aloofness made the victory of possession all the sweeter. Josh had torn his life apart to possess her. Others had, as well. She had grown used to the temporary nature of their obsessions, and she was always on the lookout for the inevitable alternative.

  When Glass kissed her goodbye, he whispered what she knew would come sooner or later.

  “Call me,” he said.

  Back at their apartment, Josh paced the floors.

  “It’s pretty obvious what he wants,” Josh said. “The fat bastard.”

  She deliberately did not comment.

  “Will it make the difference?” she asked watching his face. His hesitation gave her his answer.

  “Don’t even think it,” he said.

  “Of course, there would be no guarantees.”

  “With that crud? No. No guarantees. He uses people. He tortures them. That’s his modus operandi.”

  “Risk and reward,” she said, a deliberate sigh riding in her tone.

  “I won’t hear of it,” he muttered. She interpreted that to mean “don’t tell me about it.”

  “He wants me to call him,” she said, watching his face. He shook his head, his cheeks flushed.

  “The bastard,” he sneered. “The evil bastard.”

  He paced the room and muttered to himself. After a long pause, she said, “I know how to handle these things.”

  He continued pacing, contemplating. Finally he stopped and looked at her.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  She nodded, offering a thin, cryptic smile. He had, she knew, given her carte blanche. Typical, she thought, hardly shocked. That night they made love. During the process her thoughts were elsewhere, contemplating the image of Glass that had again formed in her mind. What did it matter? she snickered to herself. They were all wired by nature to react in a similar way.

  She met Glass in his office late the next day. He sat down beside her on the couch, then opened a bottle of Dom Perignon and poured the bubbling liquid into two crystal flutes. Her attendance at his office was an acknowledgment of a willingness to negotiate, an opening gambit.

  “I drink to the most beautiful woman in New York,” he said, his hand shaking slightly as he lifted his glass.

  “Thank you, Myron,” she said, barely smiling, taking a tiny sip. He drank half the glass.

  “I can’t keep my eyes off you,” he said, showing his Chiclet teeth. She allowed her glance to meet his eyes and hold it there. Yes, she decided, he was hooked. She let her eyes drift and studied his office. She assumed that the wooden desk and other furnishings were antiques, although they could be faux, along with the paintings. The plaques and pictures of Glass with celebrities indicated a man eager to display his connections. His office was quite obviously an extension of his ego. Look at me, look what I have. It was the inevitable cry of the little man inside the façade of a big man.

  She did note photographs in a silver frame of a heavy-set woman and two heavyset grown daughters who appeared in additional pictures with equally heavy men and well-nourished children. Family man, egocentric, show-off, manipulator. She knew the type well.

  He put his hand on her thigh, but did not stroke it. She had gone over it in her mind, calculating how the event would begin and when the moment would come when she needed to react. She knew the drill and all the moves that would ensue. She put her hand on his, sending the signal that she was now open to negotiation.

  “I could really take good care of you, Maureen,” he whispered.

  “Could you?”

  “Anything you want.”

  “Really.”

  He moved her hand to his mouth and kissed it.

  “I adore you.”

  “I don’t know, Myron,” she said in a way that she knew would move the matter along.

  “I’m a very direct person, Maureen. I am a man of quick decisions. I want you to be my girl.” He squeezed her hand. “You know what I mean.”

  “I’m flattered, Myron, really I am. But, as you know, I’m committed.”

  “So am I,” Glass said.

  “I noted that,” Maureen said, waving her free hand toward the pictures.

  “We could be, you know what I mean, exclusive friends. You know what I’m saying. I’ll take care of you, soup to nuts.”

  “That’s an odd way to put it, Myron.”

  “I know I’m not exactly Brad Pitt. And I’ll admit I’ve got some rough edges. But I have the means to be very generous. Very, very generous.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Maureen said. She had heard all this before.

  “An arrangement,” Myron said. “I’ll set you up. Your own place in the best location. Anything you want. This is not about money, Maureen. The sky’s the limit. Really.”

  “You’ve lost your mind, Myron,” she said coyly as his hand began to stroke her. He bent over and kissed her neck.

  “You smell so beautiful,” he whispered. His lips moved toward hers and she let him kiss her. It was a chore, since she hated the scent he wore.

  “You said arrangement,” Maureen said. He kept her locked in his embrace, but she had turned her face when he attempted another kiss. She put her hand on his thigh and began to stroke.

  “Anything you want,” Myron said.

  “Anything?”

  “Absolutely,” he whispered. “Anything.”

  It was now or never, Maureen thought, the moment.

  “I need guarantees, Myron.”

  The word had resonated in her mind since the dinner at Le Cirque.

  She listened carefully for a reaction, a change in breathing pattern, a sigh. She was certain she was speaking in a language he would understand.

  “Whatever you want,” he said as she stroked.

  She had observed his obvious reaction. “I can see that you are a man that usually gets what he wants and will do whatever it takes to get it.”

  His answer was to be a bit more aggressive as he moved his hands over her body. She stiffened and stilled his hands.

  “I have needs too, Myron.”

  “Name them,” Gla
ss said. She could tell that he had entered business mode.

  Calculations had run through her mind ever since Josh had given her carte blanche.

  “I have numbers, Myron. They are based on my needs.”

  “Of course. Everybody has numbers.”

  “I’m a realist, Myron.”

  “So am I.”

  Here it was then, the crucial moment. It was time to test her true value.

  “Here are my conditions,” she said, holding his glance, eye to eye. “An apartment in my name, fully furnished, a steady income, say $600,000 a year. A ten-year contract. Two years in advance. For you, an exclusive friendship. You set the schedule. On my part, absolute fidelity. I will honor my commitment to the letter. And I want it in writing.”

  “Such a gold digger,” Glass said laughing. He thought for a moment. “Tell you what.”

  She had literally held her breath awaiting his answer. She had decided in advance that there was no point in beating about the bush. No risk. No reward.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “The apartment of your choice, in a neighborhood of your choice. Whatever it costs to decorate. I’ll go $500,000 and five years. My schedule agreed. If not exclusive and I find out, the deal ends. And only one year in advance.” He smiled showing his Chiclet teeth. “One more thing.”

  “What?”

  Actually, she had expected a counteroffer. And, after all, five years was not too bad. It would bring her to her middle fifties and she would have the security and value of the apartment and what she might save. All in all, it was a deal she could live with.

  “I would like a sample. Right now.”

  She thought about that for a moment.

  “No samples, Myron. Not until you get rid of that godawful cologne you wear and you have signed the agreement and deposited the money in my account.”

  “You don’t like my scent.”

  “It’s awful, Myron.”

  “Really.”

  He moved away from her and stood up.

  “I’ll have everything ready by tomorrow.” He winked. “Same time. Same station.”

  She got up and smoothed her dress. She felt his eyes surveying her.

  “I’ll take a bath,” he said.

  “A good one.”

  She was pleased by his reaction. She had established a ground rule. In the future there would be others. It would help her retain some semblance of dignity.

  “Tomorrow then.”

  She felt his gaze as she walked across the room. She was proud of herself, of her assertiveness. She had established her value and would, of course, honor her commitment.

  “You are a piece of work, Maureen,” he said.

  But before she opened the door, he called to her.

  “What about the loan?”

  “Your call, Myron. I’ve made it a rule never to interfere in business.”

  She offered a haughty glance and let herself out the door.

  The Theatergoers

  Sara Harris loved the Broadway theater. Along with her friends Charlotte Broad and Emily Gold, who she had met in Tilden High School when they were growing up in East Flatbush, they had attended every Broadway show for fifty years. For the three of them it was a passion that transcended everything in their personal lives, through marriage, raising children, employment, divorce and widowhood.

  Whatever life handed them, tragedy, joy or disappointment, in good times or bad, they managed to ply their passion. The Broadway show and the legitimate theater in general, which included off-Broadway and scores of little theaters scattered throughout the city, was the focus of their lives, the center of their universe. They knew every actor and actress that ever graced a stage. They knew the names of singers, dancers, directors, producers, choreographers, even costume and lighting designers involved in the New York theater world.

  They watched the Tony awards each year with rapt attention and remembered who had won in every category and they scrutinized every newspaper and magazine that covered the landscape of their theatrical obsession.

  With the exception of anything that directly affected live theater, like 9/11 or the occasional strike, no other subject or event ever penetrated their interest. If it wasn’t about live theater it simply didn’t exist for them. It was as if any energy applied to events outside the realm of theater were irrelevant. If asked, they would react with blank stares to any question which involved terrorism, the middle east, Congress, the White House, political campaigns, wars in general, lurking dangers from nuclear proliferation, the stock market, the world financial situation, sports, medicine or any other subject that did not have a relationship with live theater.

  They saved every playbill from every show they ever attended and had stood outside the stage doors in good weather and bad to get the autographs of any actor who appeared. Their consistency was awesome and a bafflement to their families, most of whom were relieved not to attend any shows, although each woman had tried valiantly to instill a love for live theater in their children with not even modest success. As a result, deep chasms had opened between them and their families.

  When Sara Harris’ husband died, she mourned him appropriately, but to her two friends she confessed that she was delighted that she would never again have to endure his vitriol about her obsession with the theater.

  “He hated the whole process,” Sara told her friends, cataloguing his many objections. He especially despised the seats, accusing the theater owners and producers of packing them in like sardines just to make a buck. He was bored at the performances, often dropping off to nap. In his later years he used a device to augment his hearing but never turned it on. “It’s the tourists and suckers who enjoy that drivel,” he had ranted. It was the one issue that divided them.

  Her two divorced friends each had a similar experience with their cast-off husbands and often referred to the reasons for their divorce as “having nothing in common with their spouses” or more specifically, “he hated the theater.” They were, however, more militant and courageous than Sara and dumped their husbands early on in their marriages. With their husbands gone and their children grown, they were no longer constricted by criticism of their theatergoing.

  “Free at last. Free at last,” was now the operating motto of their lives. With the exception of a very occasional and tiny twinge of guilt about how their persistent theatergoing had undermined their family life, they felt no remorse. The theater transcended everything. As they grew older, they had graduated from the second balcony, to the mezzanine, to the orchestra prodded by a modest prosperity and the normal sensory declines associated with aging.

  They knew the various strategies to get discount tickets, and balanced comfort with affordability, making the proper connections to get seating in the first dozen rows. When other responsibilities intervened, which was rare, they had opted for matinees on Wednesdays and Saturdays, but as their outside obligations ebbed, they preferred evening performances, believing that in the evening the actors and the audience were more responsive.

  Their perspectives and opinions of the various shows they saw differed somewhat from each other, often resulting in extended discussions which served to further enhance the experience. Sara loved to analyze the skill of the director and the psychology of the characters, often citing how the element of plot surprises were so crucial in creating tension and suspense. Charlotte’s focus was mostly on the believability of the actors and how cleverly they could enter the persona of the fictional characters. And while they all loved musical theater, Emily had the uncanny ability to remember every lyric and could accurately sing most of the songs created by the composers.

  Their lives took a more dramatic turn when Charlotte and Emily were invited to move in with Sara after her husband died. At the time of his death, Sara lived in a large house in Forest Hills and her two friends were happy to accept the new living a
rrangement and share expenses. Each had her own bedroom and bathroom and happily worked out a plan to manage the housekeeping and generally maintain a comfortable and tension-free existence. Their children, who they rarely saw, thought the arrangement “peculiar” and wondered aloud whether there was a sexual component involved, much to the amusement of the three women.

  The fact was, as they each knew, that they had much in common, but the essential glue that held them together was their passion for live theater which had dominated their lives for half a century. One of their first acts upon living together was to convert Sara’s pine-paneled rec room to an archive of all the theater paraphernalia they had acquired throughout their lives. File cabinets were filled with playbills, autographed pictures and notes that they had received from various stage stars were lined up around the room. On the walls, they had hung numerous posters from past shows. Clearly they had created a shrine to live theater.

  As for the disposal of this vast cache after they were gone, they consulted lawyers who prepared legal documents that gave the material to museums that preserved such archives and artifacts for future generations. They were determined that such a collection would not fall into the hands of their disinterested heirs.

  They were remarkably compatible and, while it was not often expressed, could define their relationship as affectionate, caring and, yes, loving.

  “We are so lucky,” Sara would often tell her two friends. “How many people in this world can find others with such passionate common interests?”

  “And in the theater capital of the world,” Emily chimed.

  They were well aware that there were others in the city with the same obsessive interests and would see them often in theaters and at the stage doors after the shows, seeking autographs or a few sacred words from their idols. Indeed, when they were not attending the shows themselves, they would show up at lectures in which producers, stars and playwrights would share their experiences with their dedicated acolytes.

  As for attending the theater, they worked out a routine that suited their lifestyle and had conceived of ways to time themselves and use the subway system to avoid the nerve-wracking traffic jams that occurred around show time, especially in the major Broadway theaters.